Even rocks get rope burns.
And knee bruises too.
Constant pressure and stresses on rocks gradually alters their formations and composition over time. Eventually the pressures wear them down.
We have a similar phrase some folks have named “compassion fatigue.”
Caregivers will understand the reference. So will special-needs parents.
So does my wife. The rock.
Almost 18 years now of raising a son with profound special needs who requires 24/7 care and around the clock, non-stop attention to fulfilling his every need. Eighteen year of laying down her own life in surrender to God’s calling of her to be the mother of a son with special needs.
Eighteen years of waging a holy war against autism, cerebral palsy, and epileptic seizures.
She is tired.
Depleted. Her tank is not just running on empty, there isn’t even a whiff of fumes.
Eighteen years of this “new normal” only to have it turned upside down again. This time by her husband.
Welome to life on the list.
Heck we had adjusted to life in Holland, but this is a different planet.
Three months ago I was diagnosed abruptly with kidney failure. My kidneys no longer work. I am going through all the tests, evaluations, and processes to someday (hopefully soon) receive a kidney transplant.
The last three months have been a breath-taking whirlwind of appointments, tests and treatments.
My emotions have gone up and down by the minute. And as I’ve written before, Dr. Google is definitely not my friend.
I have spent way more time than I can comfortably admit, wallowing in the pit and walking on the Dark Side. Too many times to count, she has offered me a lifeline to pull my spirits out of the pit.
That’s why my rock has rope burns.
Becky is my rock. As I told her last night, she is the only constant thing for me through this journey.
She has spent countless hours, encouraging me, cheering for me, and laying down her life for my many medical needs.
When I lay in the ICU, she would send me scripture texts and prayers.
And when I lacked the strength to even pray on my own behalf, she would knock heaven’s doors down on my behalf and storm the Throne Room.
That’s how I know rocks can get knee bruises.
I wrote a post last month about how all I could think about when my life hung in the balance was sitting on the swing again beside my son. A reader replied that I should have acknowledge my wife as well.
I let it go.
But I wanted to explain that I dreamed about seeing my son again because I didn’t have to dream about seeing my wife again.
She never left my side.
She is my cheerleader, my nurse, my caregiver, my chauffeur, my confidant, my muse, my inspiration, and my best friend.
She is my rock.
I used to call her “Wonder Woman.” Now I realize that isn’t fair to her. She’s ten times the woman Wonder Woman could ever dream of becoming.
This isn’t the life she hoped for or imagined. But it is the life God has asked her to walk.
So she walks it. Quietly and without fanfare. In complete surrender to God’s will and purposes.
Because we took a vow. We made a covenant.
There are times on our new journey when she needs something from me. Too often, in my own current fragility, I can’t give it to her. I think that’s what hurts me the most. Her tank needs filling, and yet sometimes I can’t emotionally fill it the way a husband should currently.
A husband is supposed to be the strongest member of his own family. But my wife is the strongest person I know.
If I wrote Proverbs 31, it would be the longest chapter in all the Bible.
I’m totally inadequate to explain to her what she means to me. I keep trying to find the words to express to her how much I have leaned on her and completely relied on her through this new experience, but I fail. So I thought I would try to express it to you.
I will wage war against kidney failure and I will emerge victorious with a new kidney soon. I will fight this disease and I will live to tell about it someday and testify to how God delivered me and found me a new kidney.
And the one constant through this journey will be my rock.
Because every Wonder Woman deserves a Superman.